Читать книгу: «The Heart of Thunder Mountain», страница 11

CHAPTER XIX
SMYTHE’S LAST BUDGET

Seth had heard at the post-office that the deer were coming down unusually early from their summer haunts high in the mountains. A fine herd had been seen just above Bratner’s, and Seth proposed to Marion that she should have a try at them. They would start early in the morning, stop the night at Bratner’s, and be back home late the second evening. Marion reluctantly consented, and before going to bed that night she laid out woolen underwear, her stoutest riding costume, with divided skirts and knickerbockers and tan boots lacing almost to her knees. She did not want to go, but, as more than once before, she yielded to Seth’s insistence rather than attempt an explanation.

That night, however, summer departed from the Park. A dry storm descended on the valley, and Marion lay awake while the wind howled around the corners of the ranch house, of which every timber seemed to be crying out in agony. She knew that high among the rocks the storm was smashing about in fury, and even in its sheltered hollow the house was hammered as if the elements were bent upon its annihilation. When each prodigious outcry had spent itself and died away there was still the moaning and fretting and troubled whimpering that reminded her of the plaints of an invalid pleading for help between paroxysms of pain. She was strangely depressed by it, unaccountably distressed, and was glad when the first faint whitening of the window curtains told her of the dawn. She arose and dressed–after a moment’s hesitation–in the costume she had prepared the night before. Seth surely would not insist on the shooting trip in such weather, she thought, but it would please him to see her dressed for it. Besides, the temperature of her room reminded her that she would need warm clothes if she went out anywhere on such a day.

“Good, Marion!” cried Seth sure enough, when he saw her at the breakfast table. “Glad you’re not discouraged by a little wind.”

“But–you don’t mean to go on a day like this?”

“Why not?”

“The wind, and–we’ll get soaking wet.”

“No, it’s only a wind storm, and this is the tail end of it. The sun’ll be out in a couple of hours. We needn’t start in a hurry. We’ll leave the horses as they are–they’re all ready, bundles and the rest–until we see.”

Seth’s optimism annoyed her, but she felt encouraged when, after breakfast, she stepped out on the veranda and met the cold and quarrelsome day. A rough blast struck her in the face; she saw a ragged drift of clouds torn by the wind; and the whole landscape seemed to have undergone a melancholy change. Dispirited beyond measure, despite the one satisfaction that the weather gave, she re-entered the house, and sank uneasily into an armchair by the fire.

But Seth’s prediction was justified. Toward ten o’clock the wind ceased, and patches of blue began to show in the blanket of gray. Claire shared Marion’s disinclination to go shooting on such a day (or any other kind of a day, for her part!), and they stood at the window actually deploring the blue rents in the clouds, when Marion uttered a sharp exclamation of surprise.

“Smythe!” she gasped.

“On a day like this!” cried Claire.

He had dismounted quickly, and was walking toward the house; and as he neared the steps Marion saw in his face what caused her to press her hand on her bosom to still her heart. Something had happened! And she had known it all the time–had known it even in her sleep!

Claire ran to the door and opened it.

“Well, Mr. Smythe!” she cried. “You’re just in time to cheer us up. We’re deep in the mulligrubs.”

He entered smiling, removing his sombrero with his customary flourish. But as he advanced he shot a swift, keen look at Marion.

“Something’s happened!” she repeated to herself.

But she came forward with a smile, and shook hands with Smythe, searching his face. And he was warning her again. She could have shrieked with impatience and anxiety, but she held herself, and waited.

“A terrible night, wasn’t it?” said Claire, giving Smythe a chair.

“Terrific!” replied he. “You know the big pine that hung over the road just this side of Toumine’s? Well, it’s down, right across the road. I had to ride around it, up among the underbrush.”

“I didn’t sleep at all, and I’m used to winds, too,” said Claire.

“It got me up at daylight,” Smythe went on. “It didn’t look like much of a day for riding, but I got nervous sitting around listening to my good landlady–one of the young Martins is threatened with something or other–and started out to see how the landscape had been changed. There are trees down everywhere, and–” He paused. “What are you doing this morning, Miss Gaylord?” he asked, very casually.

She had been silent, watching him.

“We were going shooting, but we’ve been waiting to see if the weather would change.”

“Then you haven’t been out?”

“Only on the veranda for a minute.”

“Let’s take a brisk walk, then. It’ll do you good–warm you up a little.”

“Yes,” she said weakly.

She went to her room for her hat, and pinning it on before the mirror, started at sight of her face, which had grown very white. She was almost incapable of thought. The hatpin slipped from her cold fingers, and fell to the floor. She stared at it strangely before stooping to pick it up. How could she bear to hear what Smythe had come to tell her! But it was good of him to wait until he could tell her alone.

“Will you go too, Mrs. Huntington?” Smythe said, as Marion emerged from her room.

Claire looked at Marion, and wondered at the whiteness of her face, and the haunted look in her eyes. Nothing had been said, but she saw there was something.

“No, thank you!” she said promptly. “The house suits me this morning.”

Smythe and Marion walked up the hill toward the tree where Marion had practised shooting. Until they reached it neither spoke.

“Well?” said Marion, turning suddenly on him.

“Sunnysides has got away.”

“And he?” she cried.

“Thrown, but not hurt.”

She stared at him a moment, dazed. Then she threw back her head, and clasped her hands on her breast.

“Oh!” she murmured. “But how you frightened me!”

Smythe looked at her silently; and presently, when she lowered her eyes, she saw that his face was very grave. But Haig was unhurt, and Sunnysides had escaped. She had prayed for just that.

“What is it?” she cried, leaning forward to clutch his arm.

“He’s following.”

“Following?”

“Yes. Alone.”

“Where?”

“Yonder.”

He pointed to the west.

“To the San Luis?”

“Yes.”

“The way they brought him here?”

“No. Sunnysides has taken the trail over Thunder Mountain.”

Her hand fell from his arm. She swayed, as if she would collapse. Smythe grabbed her, with an arm around her waist, and led her, unresisting and dumb, to a near rock, where he seated her gently, and stood watching her. He had been too abrupt, he thought; but how else could he have told her?

She struggled bravely.

“Tell me!” she said at length.

He knew little about the event at the ranch. There had been a terrific struggle; Haig had almost conquered; then the outlaw had flung him over his head, trampled one of his men, breaking his leg, and leaped the fence to liberty.

“But–Thunder Mountain?” cried Marion.

“That’s the strangest part of it,” Smythe replied. “Even Haig refused at first to believe it. Nobody knows whether it was deliberate or accidental. It seems that ‘Red’ Davis, who works for Toumine, was taking a load of hay to Lake Cobalt. He’d stopped just beyond the junction of the main road and Haig’s to fix the harness or something, when he heard a furious galloping in Haig’s road. He looked–and Sunnysides must have been something worth seeing, as he came storming down on the boy, with red eyes and foaming lips, the bridle reins dangling at his knees, and the stirrups flying. ‘Red’ had never seen him, but he’d heard a lot, and he jumped behind the wagon as if the devil was after him. But the clatter of hoofs ceased suddenly, and the boy peered around the hay to see what had happened. There was Sunnysides, just at the junction, with his head high, snorting and sniffing, first in the direction of the wagon, and then the other way up the road. With a characteristic boyish burst of daring or deviltry, ‘Red’ leaped out from his shelter, and yelled. The horse leaped into the air, let out a wild neigh, and bolted up the road toward the post-office.

“‘Red’ watched him until he had disappeared, and then drove on. It must have been half an hour later that he heard more mad galloping behind him. He turned to look, and there came Haig, riding like all fury.

“‘Have you seen a horse?’ he yelled as he reined up alongside the wagon.

“‘Well I just guess!’ said the boy. ‘Sunnysides. How did he–?’

“‘How was the saddle–loose or not?’ asked Haig.

“‘No, it hadn’t turned–if that’s what–’

“‘Thank you!’ replied Haig, starting on.

“‘Wait!’ the boy shouted. ‘He ain’t gone that way!’

“‘What?’

“‘I say, he ain’t gone that way.’

“Haig stared at him suspiciously. Was the boy trying to trick him, in emulation of his elders? He was about to ride on, disdaining to heed him, when something in the boy’s honest face struck his attention.

“‘Are you dreaming?’ he cried.

“‘No, I ain’t!’ retorted Davis, deeply offended.

“‘Where did he go then?’ demanded Haig.

“‘Yander,’ answered ‘Red.’

“Haig was incredulous.

“‘It’s the truth!’ protested the boy. And then he told Haig what he had seen.

“‘But how in hell–’ Haig began.

“Then suddenly it came to him.

“‘Thunder Mountain!’ he cried. Then, half to himself: ‘The trail drops down from Thunder Mountain–somewhere–into the Black Lake country, and then–over the Sangre de Cristo is the San Luis. But how does he know that?’

“‘He knows a lot, he does!’ said ‘Red.’

“Then Haig was off, flinging back ‘Thank you!’ at the boy. But he took the precaution to confirm ‘Red’s’ story at the post-office. Thompson himself had seen Sunnysides, still going like the wind. Tom Banks came in a little later with news of the outlaw well up the road toward Norton’s, and Haig after him. So there’s no doubt the way they’ve gone. But it’s a losing game if Sunnysides can keep up the speed he was hitting when he was last seen.”

“A losing game!” She, better than anybody else in the Park, knew what that meant. She rose slowly, and looked across the Park at Thunder Mountain, now lost among the clouds. No, not quite; for through a rift she was just able to make out the timber line on the mountain’s jutting shoulder. Above that she knew the bleak rocks rose sheer to the bald head that was battered by tempests, seared by lightning, swept smooth by the winds that never ceased.

So this was the message! This was what Thunder Mountain had said to her! This was the answer to her questions! Day after day she had studied it, when storms gathered on that frowning head, when vapors made a smudge there in the midst of the glittering assemblage of the peaks, and when, for a meager hour, once in a while, the summit stood clear in the sunshine, as if the tortured mountain, condemned to everlasting punishment, had been given a brief reprieve.

Now, at last, she understood. Somewhere on that evil trail was Philip. He could never cross Thunder Mountain! Sunnysides might, perhaps; but he–he had tried, and failed. Others had tried, and–died for it. But he would try again; she knew how desperately he would throw himself upon that fatal head. And then? It was the end!

But she must know. She could not stay there.

She started down the hill, running; and Smythe followed her in amazement and alarm. He did not like that last look on her face.

“Wait!” he called, in a voice that for once rang with authority.

She stopped, and let him overtake her.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

“I’m going to Murray’s–for news,” she answered.

“No!” he cried. “That’s madness.”

“It’s necessary,” she rejoined. “And there’s no danger.”

“How do you know?”

“I met Mrs. Murray once at the post-office. She talked to me about Murray’s ranch–it’s in a gulch just below timber line. She asked me to come and visit her–and I’m going.”

“Then I’ll go with you!” retorted Smythe.

She looked at him intently, and smiled in a way that puzzled and disturbed him. But before he could make any considerable effort to analyze it, the smile had fled, and he was following Marion helplessly down the hill.

At the steps of the veranda she paused, and waited for him.

“I’ll be out in a minute,” she said; and left him seating himself uneasily, his perplexity plainly showing in his face.

Marion opened the door, and faltered on the threshold. Seth was there with Claire; and she must face them both.

“Mr. Smythe wants me to go for a ride with him,” she said, advancing smilingly. “We can start to-morrow on the shooting trip, can’t we, Cousin Seth?”

She had not often called him “Cousin Seth” of late; and he was delighted.

“Well,” he said reflectively, “I’d rather planned starting to-day, but if to-morrow suits you better it’s all right, Marion. Go along with your young man!”

Claire was studying her anxiously, and Marion hastened to disarm her.

“Thank you, Seth!” she said. “You see, I’m not feeling quite myself this morning–such a night I had! A short ride will be about all I’m good for. I’ll feel better to-morrow.”

“Well, then, dear,” said Claire, “you’ll not be gone long, will you?”

“Don’t worry!” was the evasive reply. “Mr. Smythe will take good care of me.”

On that she kissed Claire, nodded brightly to Huntington, and hurried away. Almost running in her eagerness, she led the way to the stable, where two horses stood saddled, with rifles in leather cases hanging from the saddlebows, and bundles strapped behind. Smythe started to remove the gun from Tuesday’s saddle.

“No, leave it there!” commanded Marion.

“Certainly. But why?” asked Smythe.

“I don’t know,” she replied. “It just occurred to me.”

“But the bundle? You won’t need that.”

“No. But yes–leave it! It’s not very big.”

Smythe looked at her keenly, and with a vague suspicion; but there was no confusion in her face or manner. She was, in fact, not thinking of the bundle or the gun; or if she thought of them–Such rigid instruments as words, worn blunt with usage and misuse, are quite inadequate to describe the faint and fugitive character of that thought,–the idea still in its inception, inchoate, embryo. She was going to Murray’s for news of Philip Haig; and all beyond that purpose was–beyond.

Smythe was not satisfied, but he could say no more; for Marion was already mounting Tuesday, and he could only follow.

At the edge of the little wood below the ranch house Marion turned in the saddle, and saw Claire standing in the doorway. She waved her hand, and Claire waved hers in response; and then the trees came between them, as they had done a hundred times that summer. But now a lump rose in Marion’s throat. Dear Claire! She had been so good to her!

They emerged from the woods, and Marion spurred Tuesday to the gallop, and Smythe came galloping behind. For some distance down the valley she made a point of keeping well ahead of him, by this means avoiding conversation, for which she was not prepared. Her eyes continually sought the dark, gaunt mass of rock that was then, little by little, breaking through the reek on Thunder Mountain. Philip would be up there soon. He had–how many hours the start of her? She checked Tuesday’s gait, and let Smythe come up beside her.

“What time was it when he passed the post-office?” she asked.

“About eight o’clock.”

And now it was almost noon! She spurred her pony on.

They turned the corner at Thompson’s, galloping, and caught a glimpse of Mrs. Thompson in the doorway, with a look of wonder on her face. Two miles beyond they swerved without lessening their speed into a less-traveled road that presently was winding in and out among the timber, which opened at the end of another mile, and showed them Norton’s ranch in its sheltered valley among the foothills. It was from Norton’s, or near it, that the last word had come of Haig and Sunnysides; so there was no need to stop for confirmation of their direction. The valley narrowed to a gulch, and the forest came down on either side, and the road ahead of them was swallowed up in shade.

Here, as if at the entrance to some unknown (for she had never been past Norton’s, in all her rides about the Park), her purpose required that Marion should rid herself of Smythe. Moreover, there was Claire to be thought of; and she did not want Huntington to be riding up the trail after her that night.

“Now, Mr. Smythe,” she said, reining up in the first shadow of the woods, “I’ve something for you to do for me.”

“What is it?” he asked in surprise.

“I want you to leave me now, and take a message to Mrs. Huntington.”

“But I can’t–leave you.”

“Yes, you must.”

“But you’re not going on alone!”

“I’m not afraid. I’ve got my rifle. Besides, I’ll be at Murray’s before dark, and there, as you know, I shall be in good hands. But Claire will worry unless she knows where I am.”

“She’ll worry just the same.”

“No. She knows Mrs. Murray very well.”

“But–”

“Good-by, Mr. Smythe!”

She reached her hand to him, and he took it reluctantly.

“It’s all wrong, Miss Gaylord!” he protested. “I’m convinced that I’m acting like a fool. If anything happens to you, I’ll–”

“Nothing will happen to me. Good-by!”

Smythe watched her until she was swallowed up by the woods; he looked at the pines piling up to the distant crests of the mountains, mass on mass, and solitude enfolding deeper solitude; he listened to the long, low, rolling murmur of the forest, sweet but menacing. Then, with the inward comment that he was several kinds of a blithering idiot, he turned and rode back toward the Park, evolving various interesting but futile theories to explain the fact that he, a man of undoubted intelligence, had always acted the part of the giddy fool in moments of emergency. And there was Huntington–another fool! He could foresee a pretty dialogue between them.

CHAPTER XX
“THE TRAIL HELD TRUE”

The forest enveloped her, but she sheltered herself in its heart, and was glad of its soothing silence. The wind had died down to a rustling murmur in the highest foliage; through rifts in the dark-green canopy she caught glimpses of a cool blue sky; and there was a rooty sweetness in the air.

Mile by mile the road, a mere track traveled by Murray’s team at long intervals, grew rougher and more difficult. Soon it had abandoned the easy grades for the gulch, and climbed steep mountain sides, in a devious course through heavy timber, dropping to tumbling rivulets, climbing again to hang on the edges of high cliffs, dodging here and there among massive, outjutting rocks. Four hours she rode thus, mounting, ever mounting, with glimpses now and then of the forests massed green-black below, and glimpses even of the Park itself, around the shoulder of a hill,–a patch of green and violet bright with sunshine. And then, when weariness had begun to weigh upon her, and as the shadows of the forest turned to glooms, she saw with a thrill of expectation that the road dipped ahead of her into a little gulch that lay hidden away in a cleft of the mountains. She must surely be near her destination now; and sure enough, she was riding presently along the bank of a roaring stream; beyond her was a small meadow of a brilliant green, and at the far edge of it a log cabin, with friendly smoke curling from the chimney.

But she was surprised and disappointed. She had expected, on reaching Murray’s, to see the stark head of Thunder Mountain towering above it, near and sheer. It was nowhere visible; not even the silvery peaks, its neighbors, were to be seen; there were only forests heaped on forests to the sky line. The trail, then, must be longer than she thought; and she seemed to be no closer to him than when she had studied the bald head of the mountain through the clouds.

She was welcomed by Mrs. Murray with cordiality, but in some surprise. A stout and jovial person, whose spirits appeared not to have been lowered in the least degree by the loneliness of her surroundings, Mrs. Murray was a helpful hostess to Marion, who was now in a state of deep dejection. A little boy and his smaller sister, both very dirty but rugged and red-cheeked, played in the open space before the cabin. The week’s washing was on the line, and from behind it, at the sound of a horse’s hoof beats, came Mrs. Murray, staring in amazement. Wonders on wonders in that solitude, where nothing ever happened! First a runaway horse of unheard-of color, saddled and bridled, dashing past the cabin, and almost trampling the children at their play; then Philip Haig, with his set face and burning eyes, making inquiries, and asking for a bite to eat; and then–

“Well! If it ain’t Miss Gaylord!” cried Mrs. Murray, as she rushed to greet her. “What in the world–”

She paused on that, recalling suddenly what she had heard at Thompson’s of Marion’s nursing Haig back to life, and intuitively associating her appearance there with his. Marion saw the thought reflected in the woman’s honest face, and knew that after all the happenings of the summer, and the gossip that had followed, her better course was to be frank with Mrs. Murray from the start. Besides she could not wait to ask her questions by any indirection.

“Have you seen him?” she demanded eagerly.

“Yes, he was here–about noontime. The look on his face!”

She threw up her hands in a gesture that indicated the abandonment of all hope for such a man.

“And Sunnysides?”

“Long before him. The critter almost run over my two babies, playin’ there before the door. Poor dears, scared almost out o’ their skins!”

“What did he say?”

“Nothin’. That is, not much. About the horse first. My man told him it ain’t no use tryin’ to ketch him, an’ it’s foolish to try to cross Thunder Mountain. Murray’s been here ten years, an’ ain’t gone much further’n the edge of it. Storms allus drove him back. An’ what’s the use, when he’s got wife an’ childer to look after? Of course Haig–”

“What did he say then?”

“He says he c’n cross if Sunnysides can, an’ if they can’t they’ll fight it out up there. My man asks why he didn’t go ’round a safe way an’ wait for Sunnysides in the San Luis, if he thinks the horse’s goin’ back home. Haig says he’d made up his mind to cross Thunder Mountain some time, an’ now’s as good a time as any. But it’s–” She was checked at last by the look of anguish on Marion’s face. “But you just come in. It’s supper time, almost, an’ you must be right hungry. Murray’ll be here soon, an’ he’ll put up your horse.”

In the cabin there was to be seen at first just one big room, with two beds at one end, a table surrounded by chairs in the middle, and a stove in the midst of kettles and pans and tubs at the other. But presently Marion noticed a kind of balcony above the beds, and she learned later that this was the “spare bedroom” in which she would be stowed away for the night.

“He was hungry too,” Mrs. Murray went on, being careful, however, to confine herself to the material side of the subject. “He ate some dinner, an’ then, after we give up tryin’ to stop him, Murray said he’d got to take somethin’ with him to eat, an’ some blankets. He hadn’t a thing, mind you, an’ didn’t want to take nothin’, but he did take a good-sized strip o’ bacon and some bread–I’d just did the bakin’–an’ a fryin’-pan an’ matches an’ a knife. Murray done ’em up in a pair o’ blankets, an’ stuck in a leather coat with sheepskin inside, an’ hung a hatchet on his saddle. He’ll need ’em–if he gits across into the Black Lake country, which’s worse some ways than Thunder Mountain–forest’t ain’t never been touched, an’ bad lands, an’–”

Murray’s entrance interrupted this speech, which was becoming painful to her guest, in spite of the good woman’s resolution to say nothing discouraging. Murray, a bearded, rough fellow in whose face shone good nature and contentment with the living he made out of his cows and chickens and few head of stock feeding in the mountain meadows, received a whispered hint, and obediently talked of other things than Haig and the runaway. They supped on bacon and eggs, with bread and butter and milk; and an hour afterwards Marion was tucked away in a comfortable bed in that queer “spare bedroom” up against the eaves of the log cabin.

Exhaustion soon brought her sleep. But in the middle of the night she was awakened by a storm that swept high over the ranch house, scarcely touching it in its sheltered hollow, but shrieking and wailing among the rocks and pines. She sat up in her bed to listen! Thunder Mountain! Before her eyes there rose, out of the dark of the cabin, a vision of Philip prone among the rocks of that terrible summit, struck down by the wind, or felled by a thunderbolt, drenched with rain, and perishing of cold. There came, above the howling of the wind, a deafening crash of thunder that rolled away in sullen bellowing. She buried her face among the pillows to shut out the frightful sound; and at length, when the tumult had died away to recur no more, she lay weeping softly until sleep came again to her relief. She did not wake again till morning.

“How much farther up can I go?” asked Marion at breakfast.

“You don’t mean–” began Mrs. Murray in alarm.

“No,” replied Marion quickly. “I don’t mean the top. But can’t I ride near enough to see it?”

“You c’n go to timber line safe enough,” said Murray.

“Yes, I’ve been that far, but you mustn’t think o’ goin’ further,” added the woman, still suspicious. “I’ll tell you what! Murray’ll go with you.”

“By no means!” Marion protested. “It isn’t necessary at all. I can follow trails well enough.”

“I wish you’d let Murray go with you. He’ll be glad to show you–”

“No. Thank you just the same, Mrs. Murray, but–”

“And you’ll not try to go past timber line?”

“Don’t worry about that, please! I know I could never go where men have failed. I’ve heard all about Thunder Mountain, and I just want to see it, near. Besides–”

She did not finish, but turned quickly away. This sign of emotion was not hidden from Mrs. Murray, and it heightened her anxiety. Lord only knew what the girl’d try to do once she got out of their sight! But where the intellectual and argumentative Smythe had failed, what could be expected of these simple mountain folk, who for all their sturdy independence were not a little awed by the superior poise and distinction of their visitor? Moreover, Marion was at this moment entirely honest in her assurance that she intended to go no farther than timber line. If the idea that lay deep in the back of her mind had grown since its inception some hours before, it was yet formless and unrecognized; if her purpose now had her firmly gripped, she was as yet unconscious of it, obeying it subconsciously, while she told herself, as she told Mrs. Murray, that she wanted only to satisfy her aching heart by doing merely all that a girl could do. To make sure that Philip had not already failed–that he had not been thrown back from the very edge of the fatal crest–that he did not now lie somewhere on the last steep slope above timber line, where she might see and save him: this was the utmost of her design in setting out that morning against the protests of her hosts.

Yielding at last, where she could avail no more, the ranchwife fixed up a simple luncheon of bread and butter and jam, which she tied in a little package at Marion’s saddlebow. And then, with a final word of warning that she must stop at timber line, an’ be back at the house ’fore dark, or she, Mrs. Murray, would be wild, and he, Murray, would have to go searching for her, the good woman let her go, and waved a fat farewell to her until Marion was out of sight among the trees.

Once more the forest enfolded her. Though the wagon road ended at Murray’s, the trail was still for some distance plainly marked, and offered few difficulties. Even when it began to be less distinct she was not alarmed. Smythe had told her, and Murray had confirmed his description, that Thunder Mountain was not formidable as far as the foot of the final scarp. Seth had taught her something of the lore of trails, and she was confident that she would be able to find her way even if the underfoot marks should fail. There would be blazes on trees, and broken limbs and twigs, and many subtle signs that she now sought to marshal in her mind against a possible perplexity. With eyes alert, she rode slowly and resolutely on, ever higher and higher, hour after hour, most of the time through dense woods, but now and then across a rocky slope, or down into a shallow gulch, and out again. By imperceptible degrees the trail grew fainter; and once it failed her utterly, in a small open space in the woods.

For a moment she was on the very point of panic; the forest seemed to be closing in on her with sudden malignity; and the terror of Thunder Mountain held her in its cold grip. But desperation called up her courage. She walked Tuesday in an ever-widening circle around the spot where she had lost the trail, with her heart almost still, and her eyes straining at every tree as it came within her vision. Where? Where? Would there be no more blazes, no more broken limbs, no more prints of hoofs on the mossy earth? Had she left the trail farther back than she had thought? And would she wander over all the vast bosom of the mountain until she fell from the saddle, and knew no more?

It was a real peril, and one that might have had a tragic termination as easily as a happy one,–more easily, indeed, if she had lost her head. But something strong within her kept her senses keen; and suddenly she broke out in a cry of joy and triumph that went echoing down the forest aisles. There, on a patriarchal pine, though almost obliterated by time and weather, was the blaze in the bark that told her the trail ran at the base of that solid trunk. She halted Tuesday there–and faced a new difficulty: in her many circlings she had lost the general direction in which she had been riding. The trail was under her horse’s hoofs; but which way should she go? There appeared to be no ascent the one way or the other, and no slope on either side.